The penthouse was too quiet after he left.
The kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums and makes your skin crawl.
I finished my pasta on autopilot, then carried the bowl to the kitchen like a normal person who wasn't living with a three-hundred-year-old werewolf king who just kissed me until my knees forgot how to work.
The staff had vanished the second Noctis did. The entire floor felt like a tomb.
I tried watching TV. Nothing stuck.
I tried reading. Words blurred.
I tried sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth on mine again.
By midnight I was pacing the hallway in fuzzy socks, Mr. Sprout tucked under one arm like a therapy plant.
That's when I noticed the door.
It was at the very end of the west wing, almost hidden between two massive abstract paintings. Matte black. No handle. Just a tiny silver crescent moon etched into the wood at eye level.
Every other door in this place opened with dramatic flair. This one looked like it wanted to be forgotten.
I should have walked away.
I didn't.
I reached out and touched the moon symbol.
The door clicked open on silent hinges.
A wave of cold air rolled out, carrying the scent of cedar, blood, and something metallic that made my stomach lurch.
The room beyond was dark except for a single shaft of moonlight slicing through a narrow window.
I stepped inside.
My breath fogged in front of me.
Chains.
Thick silver chains bolted to the floor and walls, stained dark in places that made my throat close.
Scratches marred every surface (deep, frantic claw marks that no human hand could make).
In the center of the room sat a massive iron chair, more throne than furniture, with heavy restraints on the arms and legs.
Dried blood crusted the seat.
On the far wall, someone had carved words over and over until the stone wept red.
**IT HURTS**
**MAKE IT STOP**
**I'M SORRY**
Hundreds of times. Thousands.
My hand flew to my mouth.
This was where he came every full moon.
This was the curse he told me about.
I backed up, heart hammering, and my heel caught something under the rug.
I knelt and pulled it back.
A photograph. Old, sepia-toned, edges worn soft.
A woman with my eyes and my mouth stared up at me. She was wearing a flowing white dress, hair loose, standing in a moonlit garden. Around her neck hung a pendant shaped like a crescent moon cradling a tiny star.
On the back, in faded ink:
**To my beloved Noctis,
May the moon forgive us both.
—Elara, 1789**
My fingers went numb.
The woman looked exactly like me.
Not similar.
Exactly.
Same cheekbones. Same slight tilt to the eyes. Same tiny scar on the left eyebrow I got when I was seven.
I heard the elevator ping in the distance.
Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
I shoved the photo into my sweater pocket and ran.
I barely made it back to my room before the connecting door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall.
Noctis stood in the doorway, shirt torn, blood streaking his knuckles, eyes glowing feral gold.
He sniffed the air once.
His gaze locked on me.
"You went into the moon room."
It wasn't a question.
I backed up until my knees hit the bed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He crossed the room in three strides and caged me against the mattress, hands braced on either side of my hips.
His voice was barely human.
"Never again. Do you understand me? Never open that door."
I should have been terrified.
Instead, I pulled the photograph out of my pocket with shaking fingers and held it up.
"Who is she?" I whispered.
The rage in his eyes fractured into something raw and bleeding.
He took the photo like it burned him.
For a long moment he just stared at it.
Then he sank to his knees (again) and pressed his forehead to my stomach.
"She was my first mate," he said, voice broken. "The one the curse killed. The one I couldn't save."
His arms wrapped around my waist, tight enough to bruise.
"And she looked exactly like you."